Freedom Forever
by AnthonyS
Summary: Junktown justice comes to the Mojave in the form of Dustin Moss, a former NCR-trooper trying to make a living in Vegas. But the powers-that-be may have other plans for the young vet, and his gambling problem may prove to be the leas of his worries.
1. CH1: Separate Ways

Chapter 1

_Separate Ways_

Dustin Moss spat a wad of blood-ridden phlegm onto the gecko's stinking corpse. The damned thing had nearly taken his leg off. The bite had ripped right through his leather and sent him sprawling to the ground. He'd hammered at its head with his fists, but to little avail. The beast had just dug its jowls deeper into his thigh, terribly close to his femoral artery. The rock he'd grabbed from behind his head had done little more than piss the creature off. Thankfully, his .45 hadn't fallen too far out of reach. After struggling with the beast he'd managed to get his hand on the pistol. Three shots to the head had finally put it down, but not without a trail of blood running down Dustin's leg and the chance of infection. He coughed harshly, dug a Stimpak out from his belt pouch, and injected it directly into the wound. It sent a burning sensation through his leg and he couldn't help but cry out in pain. He bit his tongue, groaning as tears welled in the corners of his eyes. Curse words threatened to escape past his lips but he forced them back down. There was still the possibility of more geckos showing up to finish him off.

Dustin sank down next to the gecko and allowed the Stimpak to do its job. It wouldn't heal the wound fully, but it would at least get him well enough to hike back to Junktown. Doc could look at him then and hopefully fix him up nice with a dose of Med-x.

The distant sound of voices brought Dustin's attention to the east. The crest of a nearby hill blocked him from seeing who was approaching. He dragged himself closer to the gecko's corpse, ignoring the stink it brought to his nostrils.

The sun in the distance sent a trail of shadows down the hill, just short of Dustin's position. There looked to be four of them. He couldn't tell what faction they belonged to; the sun was too bright to make out any details. They walked down the hill, talking quietly amongst themselves, but not quietly enough to where Dustin couldn't hear them. What exactly they were saying, however, was still a mystery. He pulled his .45 closer and prayed they didn't see his Trail Carbine laying nearby. His time as an NCR trooper had taught him one thing: assume the worst - and worst case scenario said they were probably raiders, possibly Vipers, though he couldn't be sure.

Dustin lay flat, slowly pulling the hammer back on his pistol. The quiet click sounded like thunder in his ears. Their footsteps crackled against the rough dirt and brush. They were right on top of him, just on the other side of the gecko's corpse. He swallowed a hard lump in his throat. His luck was seriously taking a turn for the worst as of late. First, Maggie had denied him on his marriage proposal. Then, his request for leave had been rejected. At this rate he'd never find a wife and he'd never make it to New Vegas. Sheriff said granting him leave to travel to New Vegas would only further Dustin's gambling addiction - funny how he didn't mind him gambling with his life, only his money. Well, it was time to gamble. Just as the four strangers walked past the gecko's corpse, Dustin relaxed his body and allowed his hands to fall to his side, closing his eyes. He barely breathed.

"Whoa, hold up a sec," a voice said. It was gruff – a male's. Dustin wondered how big. He wished he'd remembered his damned binoculars this morning, but Maggie's rejection and his leave paperwork being kicked back had had him a little distracted. With the binoculars he would've been able to make out more details. He would've known what kind of weapons they were carrying. Hell, he would know if they were raiders or not.

"What the hell?" a female voice said next. "Damn, looks like it really got ahold of him."

"Poor bastard," another said. A low chuckle followed.

"Who is he?"

"Does it matter?" a final voice said. It was commanding, obviously the one in charge. "See what he's got."

"Maybe we can head back to base early?" the female asked.

"No, I told you before. Not until after we hit the caravan," the leader said. _Damn, _Dustin thought to himself. Raiders. He gritted his teeth.

"Alright," the girl said with a sigh. Dustin could feel her kneel down next to him. Her breath was hot against his neck. "Shame, he's kinda cute. Would've made a good play thing for a bit if we'd found him alive."

"Your pussy don't need any more playing with, baby," the one with the gruff voice said. "Not with all those damn hives you got down there."

"Shut your hole!" she barked angrily. "They're heat bumps, shithead."

Dustin waited. She dragged her nails down his bare forearm and closed her hand on his pistol. He inhaled sharply, snapping his eyes open and grabbing her around the neck with his free hand. His fingers closed tight and he pulled her against him. She yelled out in surprise. Dustin pulled her against him so her back was against his chest. Her buttocks rested against his crotch and her legs flung out furiously. He had a good grip against her throat, however, and despite the fact he wasn't cutting off her airway she still couldn't move. He aimed his pistol outward at the three remaining raiders and they pulled for their guns. Dustin yanked back on the trigger, firing just right of the supposed leader.

"Don't even think about it!" Dustin barked before bringing the muzzle against the girl's temple. She struggled against him, coughing harshly and spitting out curse words. Her struggling brought a fresh burning sensation to his injured leg.

"Easy there, guy," the leader said. They'd all stopped moving toward their guns.

"Don't fuckin' move," Dustin ordered. "I swear I'll blow her brains out all over the place."

It wasn't a hollow threat. If it came down to it, Dustin would pull the trigger. It would take away his only leverage, but he would do it. The leader shook his head. He was better-looking than his two other male companions. His hair was ridden with lice like the rest, but his teeth weren't quite as stained, and he seemed to have all of them intact. The other two sported grizzly beards and one was missing an eye. The open socket sent a shiver up Dustin's spine. They were definitely Vipers. The snake brand going up the leader's forearm spelled that out clearly to the Junktown guard. It also said he was a veteran raider. He'd definitely killed his share.

"That's not necessary," the leader said. "We meant no harm. We thought you were dead. Forgive us for wanting to do a bit of scavenging."

"Yeah, and if you'd found me alive," Dustin said leaving the statement open-ended. The raider was smarter than most. It was obvious he'd had some sort of civilized upbringing. The conversation was a stalling mechanism until either one of them came up with a better option.

"We would've torn off your fuckin' balls, you asshole," the girl spat into the air, continuing to struggle against Dustin's grip. He pressed the hot muzzle further against her temple.

"Now, now Vera, that's not true. We would've rendered assistance," the leader said.

"Yeah, just like you would've rendered assistance to the caravan you're about to hit too, huh?" Dustin asked. He cursed inwardly over and over. God, what was he going to do? The one missing the eye was starting to make him nervous. His hand kept twitching at his side. The leader didn't respond right away. He seemed a little taken aback by Dustin's observation. Sweat beaded across both men's brows, their eyes locking.

"Fuck this shit!" the one missing the eye yelled. He grabbed for his pistol on his thigh.

Dustin reacted instantly. He aimed the gun outward and fired. One, two, three shots whipped through the air. Two struck true, taking down the Cyclops with a shot to the gut and dropping the leader with a shot to the arm. The third went wide. Vera slammed her head back into Dustin's noise. He yelled in pain and brought his pistol around toward her, but not before the third raider jumped on him. A knee hit his injured leg and ripped the air from Dustin's lungs. His pistol was knocked from his grasp and fingers dove for his throat. Dustin flung his fist outward with as much momentum as he could muster and struck the man in the jaw. Teeth dragged across his knuckles, cutting into his skin. Vera yelled to his left and brought a hatchet down toward his head. He rolled left, got his hand on a thick branch, and brought it up to block a second blow from the hatchet. The blade bit deep into the rotting wood and sent splinters in every direction. Dustin kicked out and caught her in the ankle. She collapsed to the ground with a scream of pain. He'd no doubt broken bone.

The fight was far from over, however. The leader was struggling back to his feet and Vera was struggling to remove her pistol from its holster. The one he'd hit in the jaw was also quickly recovering from his dazed stupor. Dustin pulled himself to his feet and stumbled toward the hill. He tripped on a rock, his bad leg dragging against the ground, and fell. The pistol shot missed him by a few inches. Dustin grabbed his Trail Carbine off the ground, turned and fired. The bullet ripped through Vera's chest and sent blood splattering against the gecko's corpse behind her. She fell backward. Dustin worked the lever action, ejecting the spent cartridge, and yanked the trigger.

It all happened so fast. Blood and brain matter flew outward from the back of the leader's head in a cone pattern, splattering his nearby companion. The man yelled out, partially in surprise, mostly in panic. Dustin ended the scream with a final gunshot, the crack echoing throughout the valley. The dust settled and four dead raiders lay around the Junktown guard, blood pooling around their dead bodies and steam rising from the heat of their gunshot wounds.

Dustin sucked in mouthfuls of air. Sweat matted his hair against his skull. The wound on his leg had started bleeding again and he didn't have any more Stimpaks. He dragged himself over to the leader's corpse, paying his splattered brains little attention. He dug through his pockets and various belt pouches. Nothing. Not even a dose of Psycho or Buffout that might get him back to Junktown. Vera's corpse paid a little better. She had a couple bandages and a tube of Insta-Clot in her side cargo pocket. He tore off the cap and dumped the white powder into the bite. It foamed and he again had to force back a yell of pain. It did its job, however, and the wound stopped bleeding. He taped on one of the bandages and stuffed the other into his pocket. He yanked his canteen off his belt and unscrewed the cap with shaking hands. The adrenaline slowly coursed from his veins. His swallowed several mouthfuls of the warm water before hooking it back onto his belt. He didn't bother searching the raiders for any other loot. He knew they didn't have anything, and their pistols weren't worth the caps. He doubted he could handle the extra weight right now, anyway.

His leg produced several spasms as he pulled himself to his feet. He looked up toward the sun, garnered his general location, and struggled back toward town.

* * *

><p>"Vipers, you say? God-dammit," Sheriff Reece spat. Doc Harrington finished stitching Dustin's leg closed and rolled backward in his stool. He grabbed a syringe and pushed it into Dustin's arm without warning. The guard jerked backward.<p>

"Relax, it's just an antibiotic to battle infection," Doc said with a roll of his eyes. Dustin looked back up to the sheriff.

"Can't believe they would venture this far south," Reece continued. "They know this is NCR-controlled territory."

"Yeah, they didn't seem too worried about patrols when they found me," Dustin said. His voice held a hint of spite. Had Sheriff Reece granted his request for leave he never would've even been on the damn scouting mission.

"Did you at least find the gecko nest?" Reece asked.

"No, they found me first," Dustin said with a downward glance toward his leg. "I don't have a clue where it's at."

"Damn. I guess I'll send Randy out tomorrow. Maybe he'll have better luck. He's not as good a shot as you but he'll have to do. You'll have to take his spot at the main gate until he gets back."

"I don't think so, sheriff," Dustin said. At Reece's questioning glance, he said, "I think I'm done as a guard. I've had more than enough violence to go around and –"

"You can't quit," Reece exclaimed interrupting the former NCR-trooper. "If these Vipers are moving in we're going to have to defend our territory. Plus, what about the geckos? They've been attacking caravans left and right."

"You can handle all those without me," Dustin affirmed. "You've got Randy and Jacks already trained to take my spot as lead scout."

"Come on, Dustin, you can't be serious."

"I'm serious. My contract's up. Under guidelines by the NCR mercantile code I'm allowed to quit anytime I want."

"I know the damn code, Dustin. What the hell else are you going to do, though? There's not a lot of work for retired soldiers," Reece said. "I should know."

Sheriff Reece had been a young sergeant back during the Enclave war. It had been his unit to finally seize control of the Navarro base, suffering heavy casualties along the way. The scars along his cheek and forehead were a microcosm to the violence and blood that had soiled the ground that day.

Dustin looked toward the ground. Guilt tugged at his chest, but he set his jaw and knew this was what he wanted. He locked eyes with the grizzled sergeant. "I'm heading to Vegas."

* * *

><p>Dustin stuffed a pair of pants into his rucksack and began digging through the other drawer. He'd sew up the hole in his armor tonight, buy a couple doses of Med-x in the morning, and set out. He wanted to get out of here as soon as possible, before Maggie found out.<p>

"You're leaving," a voice came from his doorway. _Too late_, he thought to himself. He looked up and saw her standing in his doorway. Maggie Darkwater was the mayor's daughter and next in line to govern the city. She was also the love of his life. Unfortunately, she didn't share his feelings. They'd been friends for a long time, since before he'd joined as an NCR soldier. In truth, she was the real reason he'd come back to Junktown. He thought he would come back and they would finally start a life together. That didn't seem very likely anymore. He'd finally gathered up the courage to ask her hand in marriage and she'd rejected him, saying he was only a friend. It had been like salt upon a fresh wound, burning all the way down to his core. Dustin grabbed the two magazines from his drawer and pushed them into a side pocket of his rucksack. They were already loaded.

"Yeah," he said refusing to look her in the eye. She took a few hesitant steps in.

"Why?" she asked. This time Dustin did look up. They locked gazes and he saw the glistening of tears in her eyes. She was so beautiful. She had her mother's long blonde hair and her father's strong eyes, a trait passed all the way down from her ancestor, Killian Darkwater. The dog-tags she wore around her neck were also passed down from his side of the family. The burning simmered down inside his stomach and all the anger he'd felt toward her melted away.

"There's nothing left for me here," Dustin said. It was more of a sigh, however, with all the words seemingly contorted into one long drawn out breath.

"There's plenty left for you here. You're a guard, probably next in line to be sheriff. Hell, once my father retires I'll make sure you get the job. Just please, don't go."

"I don't want it anymore, Maggie," Dustin said. He dodged her gaze and busied himself with the med kit he stuffed into his pack. "I don't want to be sheriff; I don't want to be a guard. My parents are gone. I have no family left here and the war took all my friends."

"Our friends," Maggie interjected. It was true; they'd both lost a lot of childhood friends to the war with the Brotherhood. But Maggie hadn't been there. She hadn't held Tucker Malloy in her arms as he begged to go home. She hadn't seen Danny Florentine blown to bits by an RPG.

"Yes, they were our friends," Dustin corrected himself. "I just can't stay here anymore. I almost died earlier today and for what? Two-hundred caps a month and a free room at the barracks? It's not worth it, Mags. Not anymore. Not when we've got a solid foothold over in Vegas. I want to go there. I want to see the Strip and gamble at all the casinos. I want to visit the Hoover Dam. I want to do all the things we talked about doing when we were teenagers."

"You talked about doing," Maggie again corrected. "I never wanted to do any of that."

"Just like you never wanted to marry me."

"That's not fair, Dustin."

"But it's the truth," he said. "You never wanted to marry me. You never wanted anything more than to be friends. And that's fine. But don't expect me to stay behind just because you want to be friends."

"You bastard," Maggie said. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks. She walked across the room and sent a resounding slap across Dustin's cheek. It left a five-fingered palm print across his face, just above the jaw line. She cried because she knew it was true. She loved him, but only as a friend. She wanted him to stay, but only because he was her one true friend left in this town. The war had taken away all the others. Even Jenifer had left for the Hub. If he left she would be all alone, and his knowledge of that hurt worse than anything else.

Maggie spun on her heel and headed for the door. Dustin slammed the med kit into his pack, punched the mattress, and chased after her. He caught her wrist just as she flung the door open, spinning her around to face him. She thought he was going to hit her; she's seen him so angry before. But what he did surprised her more than anything. He kissed her. He pushed his lips against hers, tasting the saltiness of her flowing tears. It was a long moment before she finally reacted, returning the kiss. It lasted for several heated seconds, their tongues grazing each other's, if only for a moment. Dustin pulled away. The tears had stopped and Maggie just stared at him. She didn't hit him again; she didn't turn back towards the door; she just stared.

"See," Dustin said. "That's why I have to leave. You'd didn't feel what I just felt."

"I . . ." Maggie struggled to come up with another reason for him to say, some argument, but she knew it was the truth. The kiss had been enjoyable, but that's all it had been: a kiss. It would never be anything more. It would never be a signature of their love. It would never be a confession of passion or lust. It was just a kiss . . . between friends.

"I'll come back one day," Dustin said.

"Promise?" Maggie asked.

"Of course," he said, though inside there was one word screaming out at him: No. He would never come back. He knew it and deep down, Maggie did as well. They hugged one last time before Maggie disappeared out the door. She would run back to her home, lock herself in her room, and cry until her mother called her for dinner. The future major of Junktown would wipe her eyes, straighten her hair, and walk out as if nothing was wrong. From that day on she would never cry again.

Dustin finished packing, tossing in a box of ammunition for both his .45 and his rifle, a bag of dried jerky, some iguana bits, and a water filtration pouch. He also gathered up every cap he owned and stuffed them into the secret compartment in the rucksack's bottom. The pack had been a gift from his squad mates when he'd left the service. He buckled the flap closed across the top and looked at the phrase they'd stitched into the fabric. Each squad member had stitched in a letter, so the phrase was disjointed and hard to read. He'd memorized it long ago, however, and had no difficulties deciphering it.

It read: Freedom Forever.

And so he was on this day, October 4, 2281 . . . free.


	2. CH2: Draw the Line

Chapter 2

_Draw the Line_

"So, you used to be a Ranger, huh?"

Dustin looked up from the charred asphalt at his feet. His leg ached. His skin burned. It was like boot camp all over.

The voice had come from the Brahmin's opposite flank and he glanced over the saddlebags to see its owner. It was a young woman, maybe a couple years younger than him. He recognized her as one of the other travelers that was tagging along with the caravan. Initially, Dustin had offered his services as a guard, an effort to make some extra caps on the side, but they'd declined. He was, however, allowed to travel with the party. Bigger groups were less likely to get hit by raiders and with the way his last encounter had gone he wanted to avoid another meeting at all costs. His nose had turned a dark shade of purple just across the bridge and the bottoms of his eyes were rimmed with red. He didn't think he could handle another beating like that.

"No," Dustin answered with a chuckle, "just a grunt."

"Oh," the girl said. She allowed the Brahmin to get a few paces in front of her so she could join him on the opposite side. Dustin slowed his tread. "I'm Karen."

"Dustin."

"What brings you to New Vegas?"

"Same as everyone, I guess. Trying to make it big," he said, the slightest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "What about you?"

"Got a job lined up in Nipton," Karen answered. "It's not as big or as exciting as the Strip but it'll do."

"What's the job?" Dustin asked. He hadn't said a word in over ten miles, since passing through the last NCR checkpoint, and it felt good to talk to someone. Karen wasn't the loveliest girl he'd ever seen. Her teeth were crooked and a set of tarnished glasses sat across her nose, but he didn't really care. He wasn't interested in her looks, just a good conversation to help pass the time, and she seemed to possess half a brain cell, unlike the few guards he'd tried to talk to. He switched his rifle to rest against his other shoulder.

"Mayor's assistant," she said quietly. She was obviously embarrassed by it.

"Don't worry about it," Dustin told her. "Nothing to be ashamed of and I doubt you'll have to worry about raider attacks with a job like that."

Karen smiled. She opened her mouth to respond but a guard at the front suddenly hushed them, raising his hand for the caravan to stop. The Brahmin took a few more steps before clopping to a halt. She looked around the caravan with deep black eyes, chewing on a long piece of yellow grass she had found along the way. Dustin rested his hand against the creature's neck, looking up toward the front of the column. He squinted but couldn't see what had brought the caravan to a halt.

"What is it?" Karen whispered.

"Don't know," Dustin said shaking his head. He pulled his binoculars from the pouch on his belt. "Wait here."

Dustin gave the Brahmin a quick pat on her side and walked up toward the front of the column. It consisted of three Brahmin, a pack mule, and half a dozen guards. The caravan's owner, Marco Price, stood at the front of the caravan with the lead guard. They stared out across the road. In the distance they saw the pass that would lead them to the Mojave Outpost, the official check-in station of the Mojave Wasteland. It was still a long walk, however, and there was a lot of open space between them and the pass.

"Problem?" Dustin asked.

"Don't know yet," Marco said. He glanced back toward the rest of the caravan. His mouth stood slightly agape and he breathed heavily.

"What are you doing up here?" the lead guard asked. He sent a spiteful glare back in Dustin's direction. "Get back with the rest of the groupies."

Groupie was a term caravaneers used for those tagging along on their route, looking for safety in numbers. Dustin gritted his teeth. Normally, the comment wouldn't have bothered him, but he had offered his services and they'd declined. He stayed where he was.

Dustin peered through his binoculars out over the landscape. It was barren, practically devoid of life. The pass was probably another two miles away. They could make it there by nightfall if they got moving soon. He glanced back over his shoulder. Karen stood with the Brahmin. Her eyes met his and he shook his head.

"What'd you see?" Dustin asked. A glint of light caught his eye.

"I don't know. I thought –"

"Look out!" Dustin tackled Marco to the ground just as the gunshot sounded, ripping through the guard's head. The crack echoed across the plain.

Marco cursed through explosions of saliva, gasping for breath. Dustin rolled off him and ducked behind the nearby rolling cart. The guards were firing wildly across the plain, their gunshots doing little more than crackling through the air after an unknown target. They yelled and barked at one another, begging for a location. Marco squirmed in next to him. Behind the nearby Brahmin, Karen and two of the other travelers cowered in fear. Dustin waved his hand to Karen and motioned for her to stay put. She nodded and he peeked over the edge of the cart. The glint had come from a nearby thicket of trees, about a hundred yards away. Dustin looked through his binoculars. He saw the light, and the sniper behind it, just as he fired. The guard was hit in the chest and he toppled to the ground, his rifle clattering in the dirt next to him.

"Fuck," Dustin swore. The sniper was too far out, way out of range for his carbine to hit, and there was too much open space for him to move any closer. The sniper adjusted his aim, another glint of light meeting Dustin's eye. "Get down!"

It was too late, however, and another guard crumbled to the ground. Dustin swore again. These guards had to be the stupidest motherfu - Dustin stopped. God . . . no. It was his imagination. He hadn't heard it. The barking sounded in the distance once more.

"Dogs!" he yelled. The guards were awakened from their stupidity just long enough to see the dogs approaching from the east. At least a dozen of the hounds sprinted toward the caravan. This was an organized raid. The sniper distracted them so the dogs could move in from the opposite direction, not giving them enough time to react. Dustin aimed down his sights and fired a quick shot toward the lead dog. It missed and he worked the lever-action. The spent cartridge hit the dirt just as he fired again. The dog yipped and tumbled to the ground. The guards turned to take aim at the approaching pack of canines, but the sniper was ready. He sent a bullet through the back of a guard's head and they took back to firing at the thicket of trees.

The dogs were close. Dustin fired and caught another in the shoulder. It howled and collapsed to the ground, kicking up dirt in its wake. Dustin swore as he worked the action. They were practically right on the caravan.

The explosion knocked Dustin off his feet. He toppled against the side of the cart, his ears ringing, dirt flying in every direction. About fifteen in front of him, and at the center of where the pack of dogs had been, a billow of smoke slowly rose into the sky. Dustin blinked several times, his ears still ringing. He was barely able to comprehend what had just happened. The dogs had been right on top of them, about to attack, when there was some sort of explosion. Now there was only blood and fur where there had once been a pack of dogs. Dustin attempted to pull himself away from the cart but only succeeded in falling to his knees. He picked up his Trail Carbine and glanced over toward Karen. She sat with an equally perplexed look on her face. Over his shoulder, he saw there were only two guards left, but no more gunshots were being fired from the sniper's location. Dustin rubbed his head and again looked out over the desert landscape. What the hell had happened?

"Five approaching to the north!" one of the guards called. He pointed to a group of silhouettes coming off a nearby hill. Dustin looked through his binoculars. He breathed a sigh of relief.

"NCR patrol," he called to the other guards. Dustin pulled Marco to his feet.

"Thought you boys could use some help," the sergeant of the patrol said as they walked up. One of the troopers had a mortar tube slung over his shoulder.

"Thanks for the assist," Dustin said.

"Thank you so much," Marco suddenly rushed past shaking the sergeant's hand. "Thank you, thank you."

The sergeant shoved him away after the fifth thank you. He was a heavier man, a thick moustache overshadowing his lower lip. He pulled his helmet away from his head, running a palm across his light dusting of hair. "We're on our way back to the Mojave Outpost. We can provide escort if you want."

"That would be good," Dustin said. The two remaining guards didn't look to be faring very well and Marco certainly wasn't going to be any help. "Who took out the sniper, anyway? I didn't hear a second explosion."

"That would be our resident phantom around here," the sergeant said. Just then, Dustin felt a presence approach from behind. He glanced over his shoulder. A pale woman stood on the opposite side of the cart. She had materialized out of nowhere, it seemed. Dark sunglasses covered her eyes and a cowboy hat shielded her face. Her skin was paper-white and her lips were only a shade or two darker. She held herself with an air of confidence that set Dustin's teeth on edge. "Say hello to Ghost."

"You boys should really invest in some better rifles," she said. "I took him out with my repeater and I was way further out than any of you. Then again, maybe it's not the rifles."

Dustin didn't offer a greeting.

* * *

><p>"So that's the Mojave," Karen said looking out over the vast expanse. In the distance, against the horizon, they could see the bright lights of the New Vegas Strip. Dustin couldn't wait to go there. He couldn't wait to make his living as a card shark at the biggest casinos in the world.<p>

"When are you heading out?" Karen asked.

"In the morning," Dustin said. "First light I'll see if there's a trader heading to the nearest town."

"I think that's Nipton, actually. Maybe I'll head out with you," she said hopefully. Dustin didn't respond. It was obvious she was developing an affection for him, something he couldn't hope to return. As much as he hated to admit it, his heart still burned for Maggie. God, why did she have to do this to him? He wasn't attracted to Karen but maybe he could still enjoy a night of warm lovemaking with her, let the shadows do the work and pretend the world wasn't so screwed up, but Maggie continually pressed in on his thoughts.

"Yeah, maybe," Dustin said quietly. What little sunlight remained was blocked out by the two looming statues just down the hill. They were of two Rangers shaking hands, symbolizing the signing of the Ranger Unification Treaty. It was what had allowed the NCR access to the Mojave Desert over a decade ago. Dustin stared up at it for several long moments before a rumbling in the pit of his stomach woke him from his musings. He shouldered his rifle and looked toward the bar at the back of the barracks.

"Come on," Dustin said. "Let's get a drink."

"O-okay," Karen said after a moment of hesitation. She followed her companion down the side of the barracks and into the tavern. It was dark inside and the smell of turpentine nearly knocked her off her feet. Dustin took it in with a long drawn out breath. It reminded him of the Crash House hotel back in Junktown. The bartended nodded at the pair and they walked over. Dustin took a seat. the stool squeaking in protest. There were only two other people at the bar: a woman on the far side, her cowboy hat pulled low and a half-empty bottle of Whiskey sitting in front of her, and an NCR-trooper eating some sort of soup. Neither looked up upon the travelers' arrival. The bartender finished polishing the glass she'd been working on and stepped over.

"What can I get you two?" she asked.

"What do you have to eat?"

"Today's squirrel stew," she said. She had dark skin and wore a hat common with roving traders. The goggles atop it were missing their lenses.

"Sounds good," Dustin said. He set his pack down on the floor and dug out a handful of caps. Karen squeaked.

"Dustin, you don't have to pay for my meal," she said.

"I'm not," he responded. His lips tugged upward in a slight smile but his eyes said he was totally serious.

"Oh . . . good," Karen said. She dug into her own pockets and produced a handful of bottle caps. When the bartender returned with their stews they paid her and began to eat. The stew disappeared quickly from Dustin's bowl; however, Karen only sipped at hers. She obviously wasn't used to life on the road, no doubt from one of the bigger towns like the Hub or the Boneyard. He prayed she wasn't one of those Followers of the Apocalypse whack jobs. They were always so damn preachy.


	3. CH3: Touch and Go

Chapter 3

_Touch and Go_

Dustin rolled the blanket up and secured it atop his rucksack. He felt so dirty. In the bunk next to him, Karen snoozed peacefully, the blankets pulled up to cover her naked body. Last night, with several alcoholic beverages circling through his system, Dustin had finally relented and made love to her. It had been hard and fast and she had enjoyed it immensely; the entire time Dustin had thought about Maggie. As much as he tried to push her from his mind, however, she refused to go. He knew with time she would gradually begin to fade from his thoughts. He just prayed that day came swiftly.

Dustin shouldered his pack and walked out of the barracks. He closed the door quietly behind him and looked out toward the great expanse of the Mojave. In the distance, the sun peeked over the horizon, its orange and yellow fingers reaching out toward the heavens.

Nearby, a trader finished securing several saddlebags to the back of his Brahmin. He was young, in his mid-twenties at most, with a full head of thick brown hair. Dustin walked over, hoping for a spot of good luck. So far, things had been far from easy.

"Mornin'," Dustin greeted.

"Good morning," the trader said as he secured the last saddle strap. He then set to work on the wagon the Brahmin would be pulling. "I'm not trading right now. Everything's packed up and set to go."

"I'm not looking to trade, just hoping to tag along with your group. Where are you heading?" Dustin asked.

"Vegas," the man answered with a grin. "I need to turn in this month's profits to Miss McLafferty over at Crimson Caravan. Then it's the Strip for me."

"Think you could tack on one more?"

"As long as you don't slow us down, shouldn't be a problem," the trader said. He extended his hand out toward Dustin. "I'm Ringo."

* * *

><p>"Goodsprings is a good enough place to stop for the night. Their sheriff, Sunny Smiles, keeps everything in check over there," Ringo explained. Dustin couldn't help but cock a smile in response. Sunny Smiles? Her parents obviously had a sense of humor. Or at least he hoped it was a girl. A man was likely to get his ass kicked with a name like that. "Plus, Trudy, the town's mayor, makes the best pies you'll ever taste. Were it not for the local batch of Powder Gangers they wouldn't have any problems at all."<p>

"What about Nipton?" Dustin asked. He hated leaving Karen like that, without an explanation, but he didn't want to go through yet another awkward goodbye.

"Solid enough place," Ringo answered, oblivious to the thoughts circling around his companion's head. "Mayor's kind of a sleaze bucket if you ask me, but the people are friendly enough - a lot of whores and gamblers. Legion activity's been pretty bad in that area lately, though. I tell you, I can't wait for the day the NCR finally kicks their asses out of here for good. You'd think the first Hoover Dam battle would've done it. They blew up an entire town for God's sake. If that wouldn't stop 'em I don't know what will."

Dustin simply nodded in return. He'd heard stories of the Legion, of their brutality, before. He couldn't blame Ringo for wanting them gone. Beside him, the Brahmin seemed to snort in agreement.

The two guards accompanying them remained silent throughout the course of the journey. They watched the road and the surrounding desert with piercing gazes. Ringo continued to talk about the Mojave's various landmarks. He spoke of Novac and its great dinosaur monument, of Primm, and the Vikki and Vance Casino. Ringo, it seemed, had travelled the Mojave Desert for quite some time and was a healthy source of information. Dustin took it all in, mostly in silence. His leg throbbed and during a quick rest break, he popped a tab of Buffout. It would strengthen his muscles for the remainder of the journey and, with any luck, cease his leg from hurting for a while. He replaced the remainder of the green pills in his bag and turned to speak to Ringo.

The grenade rolled to a halt a few feet away.

Dustin yelled out a warning just as it went off, the explosion sending a shockwave of pain that knocked the young veteran clear off his feet. Shrapnel flew in every direction and Dustin landed at an odd angle, his left arm draped across his back, his cheek pressed flat across the hot dirt. His head pulsed and he felt like his nasal tract had been relocated to the inside of his eardrum. His arm refused to move; even when he saw the men come off the nearby hill and put a bullet in each of the caravan guards. Ringo fled, chased swiftly by the attackers, while a large man rifled through the caravan's goods. He wore a large black bulletproof vest and a blue jumpsuit, the letters NCRCF stenciled in yellow across the back. Dustin was helpless as he yanked open his pack and went through its contents. He didn't stop until he'd found the hidden compartment in the base, tearing it open and removing every cap Dustin had. The man looked over his shoulder and saw Dustin watching him.

"So, you're still alive, huh?" he asked. He pulled his pistol from his belt and kneeled down next to him. Dustin tried to respond but his tongue felt like cotton. "I guess my arm is failing me. I thought I got that grenade right at your feet."

He yanked the hammer back on the nine millimeter and smiled evilly. Dustin shut his eyes, not at all prepared for the end. He now understood why so many returned from Vegas with nothing but dust in their pockets, and why some never returned at all. At least this would be quick.

"Oh fuck," the man suddenly said. Dustin opened his eyes and saw the attacker retreating back toward the hill. As he looked over his shoulder Dustin saw fear etched across his face. The former NCR-trooper finally managed to get his arm from across his back and rolled over. He saw them just before the club ricocheted off his brow: dark leather pauldrons, studded chest piece, a helmet and mask covering their faces. Dustin didn't need introductions to know who they were – Caeser's Legion.

He would've rather taken a bullet to the head.

The blow knocked him unconscious and sent him sprawling back to the ground. The Prime Decanus stepped forward and pulled Dustin's head up to meet his, his visage reflected in the Legionary's tinted goggles. He said simply, "take him."

* * *

><p>Sunny arrived at the massacred caravan a few hours after midnight. According the trader who'd stumbled into town there might still be a survivor, a groupie who'd been travelling with the caravan. She found none, however. Only the two rotting corpses of the caravan guards remained.<p>

Sunny kneeled down and examined the tracks around the caravan. The Brahmin had both been shot in the head, their blood pooling around their bodies and distorting the tracks. She still recognized the footprints, however, and she tracked them toward the edge of the clearing. One set of prints moved towards Goodsprings, no doubt Joe Cobb and his men searching for the trader. The other set, however, moved off in an entirely different direction. She examined them for a long moment.

"Cheyenne," Sunny called quietly into the dark. A moment later her dog came padding up. She pointed to the tracks. Cheyenne sniffed at them, looked out across the darkened plain, and growled deeply. Sunny sighed. "Yeah, that's what I thought too. Legion."

Sunny beckoned the dog to follow and they headed up the hill, praying it was a simple scouting party that had taken the man. If it was anything more, Sunny would have to retreat and call for aid, though she doubted she would receive any. The Rangers were stretched thin enough as is.

* * *

><p>"Caesar will be pleased. This slave seems stronger than the others we have found."<p>

"Perhaps he will excel in the arena."

"Enough talk. Go to sleep. It is a long walk back to Cottonwood Cove."

Dustin's eyes slowly fluttered open. His head ached and his eyes felt as if they'd been scorched. Across a dead campfire two Legionaries lay, attempting to go to sleep, and a third stood guard. Dustin attempted to move his hands but they were bound behind his back. The rope stood strong against his struggling and he soon gave up, not wanting to attract the Legionary's attention. Blood had crusted and dried against his temple and down his cheek and his teeth felt as if they'd been rattled from their sockets.

Dustin licked dry lips and stared at the Legionaries that had taken him captive. Two of them carried machetes, while the one that stood guard held a hunting rifle between his hands, a .308 by the looks of it. A quick glance down revealed they had removed his .45 from its holster. That would've been too easy, he thought to himself. Frustration boiled in the pit of his stomach. Enough was enough. It had been a run of bad luck since leaving Junktown. Hell, before even that. Was karma trying to tell him something? Was he a bad man who needed to be punished? Sure, he'd made love to Karen imagining her to be Maggie. He'd left her there, lying naked in her cot, without so much as a goodbye or an explanation, but did that mean he deserved this?

Dustin gritted his teeth and pulled himself to a seated position. His muscles bulged as he again struggled to break the rope. The Legionary chuckled.

"I would not try that, slave," he said. Dustin froze. "Even if you manage to break the bonds you will never outrun my bullet. Best to sleep now and gather your strength for tomorrow. Cottonwood Cove is not an easy walk from here."

"Cottonwood Cove?"

"New to the Mojave, I see. Cottonwood Cove is the Legion's main transportation hub to the Fort, Caesar's majestic castle where he overlooks all the Mojave's sins. It is where we will take you tomorrow."

"Lovely."

"You surprise me, slave. Most in your current state would be begging for salvation. Even the NCR dogs we have captured prayed for freedom, groveling for their insignificant lives."

"Groveling was never my strong suit. Plus, it's not like it'll do any good," Dustin said spitefully. Behind his back he continued to struggle with the ropes. They dug into his wrists, peeling away his skin slowly and drawing tiny droplets of blood.

"Wise beyond your years, slave. Perhaps you will find a place in Caesar's Legion after all. Hail Caesar," the Legionary said.

The crack echoed through the air. Before it had even registered in Dustin's brain the Decanus fell to his knees, the rifle clattering from his grip. The two Legion recruits awoke with a start, grabbing their machetes from their belts. A dog, however, came out of the darkness and tackled one to the ground, its jowls closing on his throat. He screamed in pain as his companion swung toward the canine. Dustin rose to his feet and sprinted at the man, but another crack echoed and brought the recruit tumbling back toward the ground. Blood splattered outward from the dog's sunken teeth, ending the recruit's struggling. Dustin skidded to a halt and the dog growled up at him. It moved toward him, baring its teeth, its eyes glowing in the moonlight.

"Cheyenne stop," a female voice came through the darkness. The dog immediately halted its advance, panting happily. In the darkness a silhouette approached, its details hard to make out in the darkness. Dustin slid his foot outward, ready to break into a sprint if he needed to. The shadow stopped at the dog's flank, patting it on the head affectionately, and Dustin saw it to be a young woman. She was quite lovely and wore a set of leather armor similar to his own. Slinging her rifle across her back, she produced a knife, saying, "now if I cut you loose you're not gonna turn on me, are you?"

"No, but I may kiss you," Dustin said. It was twice now he'd found himself saved by a random stranger. A third time and he'd start to wonder about divine intervention.

"How 'bout you kiss Cheyenne instead," the woman said. She came forward and sawed at the ropes. "She's the one that picked up your scent when the tracks disappeared."

"You were tracking us?"

"Yeah, that trader said there might be a survivor so I came to check it out."

"Trader? You mean Ringo? He made it?"

"I think that's his name, yeah. He told me where you guys were at when you got attacked so I came to check it out."

"Awfully nice of you," Dustin said.

"As acting Ranger of this sector it's my duty to check out all Legion activity," she said. The ropes finally gave way and snapped apart. Dustin massaged his wrists tentatively, the raw skin tender to the touch.

"You're a Ranger?"

"Yep," the woman said with a smile. "Second Ranger Battalion, Mojave Desert, Sector Nine."

"Corporal Dustin Moss," Dustin said extending his hand outward. "Former active duty - Fifth Infantry Division, Los Angeles Dispatch."

She clasped his hand gingerly in hers. "Sunny Smiles."


	4. CH4: Leather Tramp

Chapter 4

_Leather Tramp_

"So how'd a girl like you end up a Ranger, anyway?" Dustin asked curiously.

"A girl like me?" Sunny asked with a chuckle. "What does that mean?"

They'd been moving through the darkness for the past hour in almost total silence. In the distance, the sun still waited to show its face. The only small fragments of light came from the moon overhead and the distant red and yellow twinkling lights of the Strip.

"Well . . . you're just not really what I'd expect from a Ranger," Dustin said. He searched for a good way to say it. "You're . . ."

"Short?"

"Young," he finally said. "But, yeah, short as well."

"Thanks," she said with a snort. Beside her, Cheyenne trotted along, scanning the darkness in front of them.

"No, I didn't mean it like that. You saved my life. I just . . . I don't know. Forget I said anything," Dustin trailed off. He tried desperately to put the shovel down and pull himself out from the hole he'd dug, however, it was proving quite difficult.

"It's alright," Sunny said. She smiled faintly. "You're not the first person to ask. My father was a desert Ranger before the NCR arrived. He died defending a group of caravaneers from a bunch of raiders. It seemed only right that when I was old enough I'd join as a Ranger as well, no matter what flag it was beneath. I'll be the first to tell you, Rangers can be some of the pushiest, rudest sons of bitches out there, but if I do even a fragment of good compared to my father I'll feel like I've honored his memory."

"And sheriff of Goodsprings? How'd that come about?"

"I don't know. I just kinda wandered into town one day and never left. The people there are the best I've met anywhere and I just can't bear to leave it. Plus, Cheyenne would probably kill me if we ever missed one of the good songs on the jukebox."

As if in response, Cheyenne panted happily. Atop a nearby hill Dustin spotted an archaic wooden water tower, reminding him of just how thirsty he was. He hadn't had anything to drink since the few droplets Sunny had spared after saving his life.

Sunny saw him looking and commented, "That's Goodsprings cemetery. We're almost there."

Dustin nodded; thankful they'd soon be near a warm bed and, with any luck, a cup of water. Movement suddenly caught his eye and he glanced back up toward the hill. Atop it, slightly distorted by the wooden picket fence, was a small square light. A shape moved behind it. He squinted hard but it was little more than a silhouette in the darkness. He tapped Sunny on the shoulder and she glanced up as well. Her brow narrowed as soon as she saw it and she froze. She crouched low and Dustin joined her.

"What the hell is he doing up there?" she asked.

"Who?"

"Victor."

"Who's Victor?" Dustin asked.

"He's a Securitron from the Strip, but I think he must've been reprogrammed by his old owner or something 'cause he doesn't act like any of the others I've seen. He lives in town in his owner's old shack."

"Who was his owner?"

"Don't know. When Trudy came into town back in '74 the shack was already abandoned and Victor was alone."

"Weird. What do you think he's doing up in the cemetery?"

"Getting frisky," Sunny said. Dustin looked over at her sharply and her face split into a wide grin. "I don't know. Let's go find out."

"You sure?"

"Come on," she said pulled Dustin along. "We took on some of Caesar's best. I think we can handle one friendly Securitron."

As they ascended the side of the hill Dustin saw where the light was coming from. It was a monitor, or rather a screen, across the front of the robot. The cartoon image of a cowboy, a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth, was lit up across it. Long, hose-like arms dug through the dirt of a nearby grave, scooping out chunks of the loose soil. A large rubber wheel provided the robot a means of transportation and as they approached they could hear him humming a tune. Dustin stopped himself. Robots couldn't hum, could they? This one certainly seemed to be, and quite happily for such a morbid act he was committing, Sunny approached as quietly as she could, commanding Cheyenne to stay with a raise of her hand. She pulled herself over the fence and motioned for Dustin to follow. He wished he'd still had his Trail Carbine. Then, he wouldn't be so hesitant, but that bastard who'd taken all his caps no doubt had it. He approached the fence carefully.

"Howdy, partners," the robot suddenly said. Dustin froze. Sunny's hand twitched toward her rifle. "I'm glad you're here! I sure could use a hand."

'Victor, what are you doing?" Sunny asked. Her hand was still slightly raised to grab her weapon from her back.

"Trying to dig this poor courier out from beneath the dirt."

"Why?" Sunny asked. Dustin noticed the topsoil that covered it looked a shade darker than the rest. It was a fresh grave, he suddenly realized.

"Because," Victor said as if there wasn't a care in the world, "he's still alive."

"What?" the pair both asked simultaneously. Sunny rushed forward and saw the exposed hand and shoulder. The fingers twitched. Victor continued digging, the cowboy image never faltering. Sunny turned toward Dustin. "Help! Get a shovel from Chet's, the general store."

Dustin nodded and sprinted back down the hill, toward the town. He hopped over a nearby boulder and saw a pair of adjacent wooden buildings. Across the top of one read "Goodsprings General Store". Dustin didn't stop to consider how to get into the store. He ran at the door and collided with it hard. The impact sent a shockwave through his shoulder. He grunted and hit it again. The rusted lock finally gave way and he sprinted in. Behind the counter was a large, metal barrel containing various farming tools and equipment, and near the back was a shovel. He hopped over the counter, ignoring the pain it brought to his thigh, and grabbed the shovel. He was rounding the corner when the stock of a rifle collided with his chest, knocking the breath from his lungs, and taking his legs out from under him. A man sporting a thick brown beard and still blinking the gum from his eyes stood over him. A double-barrel shotgun was pointed directly at Dustin's face. He didn't have to guess who this was - Chet.

"You break into my store for a shovel," he said.

"I'm not stealing it," Dustin said. It was accompanied by a harsh cough as he tried desperately to get oxygen back in his lungs. His chest burned.

"Then what the hell are you doing? Borrowing it?"

"Yeah, actually," Sunny said from the doorway. "Chet let him go. He was acting on my orders."

"Sunny? What's this all about? I thought you were out tracking some traders or something."

"This is him and he's helping me out," she offered in way of explanation. Dustin continued to stare up at the gun's twin barrels, still pointed at his nose. Chet took a step back and lowered his aim to the ground. Dustin rose gingerly to his feet, massaging his chest. Sunny motioned for him to follow.

"Come on," she said. "Victor's got her out."

"Her?"

"Yeah, it's a girl. Come on!" she beckoned for him to follow once more. Dustin jogged out, calling an apology over his shoulder. It was met with deaf ears. Chet examined his doorframe with a creased brow.

"Where's he taking her?" Dustin asked. He saw Victor rolling up the road, the courier dangling in his tubular arms.

"Doc Mitchell's. He can help. He's a – "

'Doctor," Dustin filled in.

'Yeah."

"Yeah, caught that," he said. Sunny either didn't catch the sarcasm or didn't care. They both continued up the road, following in the robot's wake. He rolled toward a nearby house. On a pole outside a blue and yellow flag flapped in the wind. Dustin couldn't make out the words in the darkness, but he knew it wasn't NCR.

Victor halted at the door to the house and waited patiently until Sunny and Dustin arrived. She immediately began banging on the door, trying the handle several times, and calling his name repeatedly. It was several baited breaths before Doc Mitchell finally came to the door. He opened it harshly, a pistol held out in front of him. He saw the worried expression plastered across Sunny's face, then the courier's limp body dangling in Victor's arm. He ushered them in hurriedly, not needing an explanation.

Dustin followed in closely, though once they were inside and the door was closed behind him, he felt unable to move. Victor, Doc Mitchell, and Sunny disappeared into another room and Dustin could do little more than stand at the door, his hands resting on his hips. His leg throbbed and his chest still hurt from where Chet had hit him, but none of that stopped him from moving. It was like his feet were glued to the spot, rendering him completely immobile. He leaned against the door and listened as Doc called for various surgical instruments, more gauze, and for Victor to get out. The robot crashed into something before finally leaving the room. Every few minutes Doc Mitchell would beg for a surgical instrument, or for Sunny to get another IV going, and for the longest time Dustin wondered if it was all just a lost cause. He's seen the wound when they'd first entered into the house. It was a gunshot to the head. He'd never been shot before, but he didn't understand how anyone could survive an attack like that. Then, like some kind of miracle, the movement ceased and Doc Mitchell let out a long sigh.

"I think we've done it," he said hardly believing his own words. "I think she might actually make it."

It was then Dustin finally found his legs able to move again. He took a few hesitant steps down the hallway, and then rounded the corner into the pseudo-operating room. The floor was littered with blood-stained rags and empty IV bags. Stimpaks and syringes of Med-x had been tossed away, their contents used up. Sunny sat on a nearby stood, her eyes rimmed with red, her hands shaking in her lap. Doc Mitchell, who Dustin was finally getting a proper look at, stood over the courier with his arms crossed. He glanced up.

'Sunny, who's this?" he asked.

"Oh . . . uh, he's the one that was travelling with Ringo. I managed to track him down," she said. Her eyes met Dustin's and she looked away swiftly.

"I see," Doc said. "You're a lucky man. Not as lucky as this young lass, though. Single bullet to the frontal lobe, she should be dead."

"Any idea who she is?" Dustin asked.

"Courier from the looks of it," he answered. He produced a folded piece of paper and held it out to Dustin. He took it in his hands. "It's some kind of order form or something."

Dustin glanced over it.

INSTRUCTIONS

Deliver the package at the north entrance to the Vegas Strip, by way of Freeside. An agent of the recipient will meet you at the checkpoint, take possession of the package, and pay for the delivery. Bring the payment to Johnson Nash at the Mojave Express agency in Primm.

**Bonus on completion:** 250 caps

MANIFEST

**This package contains:**

**One** (1) Oversized Poker Chip, composed . . .

"Is she going to make it?" a voice came from the door. They looked over to see Victor standing in the doorway. The cowboy's mouth had turned into a small black circle, signifying a look of concern.

"Yes, I think so," Doc Mitchell said.

"Good work, partners. He'll be pleased," the Securitron said. He rolled toward the door. "Well, I'll be seeing you."

A moment later and he was gone from the house. Dustin glanced out the window and saw him rolling toward a shack on the far side of town. He closed the curtains back up and glanced back toward the unconscious courier. Bandages covered a large portion of her face and head.

"Doc, you think you could have a look at Dustin?" Sunny asked. "Chet whacked him pretty good in the chest."

"I'm alright," Dustin said holding his hand out.

"Don't be foolish," Doc interrupted. "I'm already up and the sun's well over the horizon, might as well make the most of my time. Take off that chest piece and let me have a look at you."

Dustin didn't argue further. He knew it was pointless. He unbuckled the latches beneath his arms and pulled the leather chest piece and pauldrons over his head. He yanked off the elbow pad as well. All it had done was rub his skin raw anyway. Sunny coughed slightly when he removed his shirt and excused herself from the room. Dustin looked at her but she refused to meet his gaze. He shrugged it off and allowed the doctor to put a stethoscope to his chest. It was cold and he fidgeted beneath it.

"Deep breath," Doc Mitchell said. Dustin inhaled and let out a cough at the peak of the breath. "My, my . . . Chet did whack you something good. I think he bruised your sternum. Don't be surprised if you have a little trouble breathing in the next couple of days."

"Lovely," Dustin responded. He grabbed for his shirt but his leg faltered beneath him.

"Why do I get the feeling the chest is the least of your worries right now?" Dustin eyed him but didn't say anything further. "Let me have a look at it."

Dustin rolled his eyes but relented nevertheless. He took a seat and removed his boots, followed by his pants. The leg looked bad. Yellow and brown bruises had extended outward from the wound like a pool of waste and the bite marks were shaded in a sharp scarlet hue. Dustin's veins also looked much darker than normal and it was tender when Doc Mitchell touched them with his fingers. Dustin cringed but otherwise kept his mouth shut.

"What did this to you, son?"

"Gecko."

"How long?"

"Three or four days ago."

"You've been walking on this?"

"All the way from California," Dustin said.

"Damn fool," Doc Mitchell muttered bringing a crease to Dustin's brow. "You should've been off this for at least a week before even considering going to your mailbox. When's the last time you washed this?"

"Three or four days ago," Dustin said with a snort. Doc Mitchell rolled his eyes.

"Well, your immune system it looks like is fighting off an infection. I'll give you an antibiotic to fight it, but you're going to need to wash the wound thoroughly with some purified water and some alcohol. Where are you staying?" Dustin shrugged his shoulders. "Talk to Trudy over at the Prospector Saloon when it opens. She should be able to set you up with a room somewhere and she'll be able to sell you some alcohol. I'd give you some but I used up all mine saving this little girl's life."

Doc Mitchell indicated the unconscious courier. It was then Dustin realized he still had the shipment order. He handed it back and the doctor thanked him, telling him he could get dressed. Dustin pulled his pants on with an effort, gritting his teeth. He hadn't realized just how bad his leg had gotten. He'd been so focused on getting to New Vegas he hadn't thought about the toll it was taking on his body. Sunny ventured back in once he was dressed.

"How's he look?" she asked.

"He'll live, but he's going to need some good solid rest to keep that leg working, and his chest will be tender for quite a while. I told him Trudy could set him up with a room and that he could purchase some alcohol from her."

Sunny looked over at Dustin and this time it was he who didn't meet her eyes. "You don't have any caps do you?" she asked.

Dustin didn't respond. That bastard had taken everything he owned, including his pride. He'd been so stupid to drop his guard just because they were in the Mojave. Sunny patted him on the shoulder.

"Don't worry," she said. "You can stay at my place for the time being and I'll see if I can scrounge up a few extra caps so you can clean that leg up."

"I . . ."

"Am not going to argue," she said. Sunny turned to Doc Mitchell. "Thank you, Doc. Let us know if he condition changes."

"Will do."

Sunny nodded a goodbye and she and Dustin headed for the door. The sunlight hit the pair like a bag of bricks and they realized just how exhausted they were. Dustin could've gone to sleep right then and there, but his thirst and something else kept him from doing so. He stopped Sunny.

"What do you think he meant 'he'll be pleased'?" he asked. His throat was so dry but he had to ask.

"What?"

"Victor. Right before he left, he said 'he'll be pleased'. The courier's a girl."

Sunny shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. Maybe you should ask him. Later, though. For now, you need some sleep."

Dustin nodded, completely agreeing. "And water. Lots and lots of water."


	5. CH5: Salt of the Earth

Chapter 5

_Salt of the Earth_

_Ringing filled his ears and smoke clouded his vision. He coughed heavily and tasted the saltiness of blood. He already knew he had internal damage from the shockwave alone, never mind the shrapnel that must've hit him as well. His arm was at a weird angle, cocked behind his head, and the tent wall had collapsed around him. _

_ Dustin coughed again and moved his arm back to his side. It popped back into place unexpectedly and Dustin couldn't help but cry out in pain. He gritted his teeth and fought to get himself back under control. God, everything hurt so much. Even his lungs felt like they had been set on fire. It must've been the smoke from the blast. _

_ Fumbling around Dustin found his Trail Carbine laying nearby. He grabbed it and hugged it close to his chest. There was no telling what all had went on during his black out. Then the gunfire sounded - heavy automatic rifles and the whistles of more mortars coming. In the distance he could hear the war calls and chants of the tribal natives as they closed in. Dustin suddenly realized exactly what was going on. The camp was being invaded. _

_ The NCR trooper fought to get to his feet. His legs were shaking and he could barely grip the rifle. The ringing had yet to leave his ears. _

_ As the cloud of smoke began to dissipate he could see Rapp lying face down in the dirt. Blood was smeared across his close-cropped blonde hair. Dustin crawled over to him, keeping low as gunfire again erupted nearby. The M60s positioned at the sandbags were unloading into the incoming wave of attackers. But still they kept coming._

_ Dustin grabbed at Rapp's arm and rolled him over. _

_ "Hey! Hey! You okay?" he asked as the ringing finally began to clear._

_ "Ugh," Rapp managed to get out as his eyes slowly fluttered open. "Yeah . . . I'm alright."_

_ "Come on," Dustin said as he pulled the much larger man to his feet. "We're too much in the open out here."_

_ Rapp stumbled as he rose to his feet and Dustin was forced to lend his shoulder to him for support. The weight pressed down on his recently dislocated arm and he couldn't help but groan in pain. Rapp barely noticed, however. His vision was spotty and he felt the overwhelming desire to just lie down and go to sleep. Dustin already knew he had a pretty severe concussion. He could tell by Rapp's lack of focus and the fogged over look in his eyes as he fought to keep them open._

_ A bullet whistled past his ear and Dustin started moving. Another mortar dropped nearby and the pair stumbled. Rapp hit the ground and Dustin knew this wouldn't work for long. He grabbed hold of his friend's flak vest, slung his rifle, and with everything he had begun pulling him toward the latrine. It was the only hardened structure in the whole camp and it was where the injured corporal would be safest._

_ Dustin gritted his teeth and lost his footing twice, falling onto his rear as he struggled backward. Rapp had to outweigh him by at least seventy-five pounds. How on Earth Dustin managed to drag him across the camp back to the latrine would be a mystery to him the rest of his life. With the dropping of mortars all around, the ripping of automatic gunfire, and the yells of an enemy from another world, Dustin Moss dragged his comrade into the latrine. The smell of vomit and sweat permeated the structure but at this moment Dustin didn't give a damn. _

_ "You gonna be alright?" Dustin asked dropping down on one knee._

_ "Yeah . . . ugh, I'll make it."_

_ "Here, hold onto this," the firefighter said. He pulled out Rapp's nine-millimeter and pushed it into his hand. "Just in case."_

* * *

><p>Dustin sat bolt upright in bed. His chest and forehead were covered in sweat. His breaths came in harsh gasps for air and he looked around the room with widened eyes. It had been a dream, just a damn dream. He swallowed a hard lump in his throat and looked around the room. Sunny had allowed him to stay in her common room, loaning him a sleep mat and a moth-ridden blanket. By the end of the night, however, he had hardly cared. He was so exhausted from everything that had taken place, at this point, he would've taken the courier's shallow grave.<p>

Dustin threw the blanket aside and allowed his feet to feel the cold, hard concrete floor beneath him. It was something he had done for a long time. If you couldn't decide what was real anymore, let your feet touch the ground. They never lied.

He wondered why he had dreamed of that day. Of all things to dream about, it had to be that, something he had not thought of in quite some time. Maybe it was seeing the courier, a poor young girl, ravaged by the wasteland like that. It had stirred awake something deep inside him he had not felt in some time: anger. He had mistaken it for anxiety at first, but he now knew it to be pure, unmistakable rage. He wanted to find the people responsible and give them the worst punishment he could think of, a beating people would write songs about. He wanted to show these people a little Junktown justice.

Dustin rubbed the gum from his eyes and slowly pulled on his pants, careful to avoid the freshly washed wound. The redness around the edges had lessened and it wasn't quite a tender to the touch. Still, he didn't want another lecture from Doc Mitchell so he was very ginger in his dressing.

He chose to leave the armor sitting in the corner, instead only pulling on a simple grey shirt, laced at the collar, and his worn leather boots. He opened the front door carefully and stepped into the cool night breeze. He'd only slept a few hours at most, the sun just barely gone from the horizon, but it felt like ages. His joints were looser and once he'd calmed down from the dream his breaths came more easily. He looked up at the bright moon overhead. It was hard to think people had once walked upon its surface, so far from all the pain and suffering of the Earth. It was hard to think the world had thrown everything away over a few scraps of resources. He sighed and looked eastward, toward the Prospector Saloon. Lights glowed in the windows and voices escaped through the open doors. Looking back toward Sunny's house, he didn't hear any stirring from inside, and decided to check it out. Doc Mitchell had mentioned a woman named Trudy, and despite Sunny's conviction to help him out, Dustin wanted to earn his own way.

The Prospector's interior was shadowed and layered with dust. A common room held a pool table, its surface made of red felt and most of the balls missing their numbers, a jukebox playing some old Pre-War tune, and a few tables and chairs. On the other side of the divider wall was a semi-circle bar made of chipped and stained mahogany and a few cushioned booths. Several men sat in a corner table and two leather-clad hunters played a game of nine-ball, cursing as one of the players missed yet another shot. As he crossed into the barroom he saw two women sitting at the bar, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and chatting quietly. When he entered in their voices grew a little more excited and he was able to catch a fragment of their conversation.

"That's one of the ones that found the dead courier," the woman on the right said. She was dressed in a pink Pre-War dress. The white flower sewn across the front was faded and stained.

"I heard she wasn't dead, that Doc Mitchell was able to bring her back, and that that young man was the one Sunny saved from Ceaser's men," her friend argued taking a long drag from her cigarette.

Dustin rolled his eyes and approached the bar. Trudy, the bar's owner and tender, saw him and walked over. She smiled, though only slightly. It was obvious she'd already had a long night.

"I know everyone in town so I'm guessing you're the trader Sunny rescued," Trudy said. "You owe her a debt of gratitude. Not many would go chasing after Caesar's men to rescue a perfect stranger. Don't go treating her wrong. Also, if you think of it, Ringo probably wants to have a word with you. He was very eager to hear how you were doing."

"Yeah, I was wondering where he was. With all the confusion I didn't get a chance to ask."

Trudy leaned in, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "He's up at the old gas station. If you go up there be discreet about it. The men who robbed you two were in here earlier asking about it."

Dustin's brow rose toward his hairline. "Don't worry, I didn't say a word. Played dumb about the both of you. Their leader, Joe Cobb, seems to think you're dead so I wouldn't worry too much about it."

Dustin snorted. "Oh, I'm not worried. I'm just looking for a little payback."

"I don't know if I'd recommend that. Cobb's part of a gang known as the Powder Gangers. They're a pretty rough bunch to mess around with. About the only ones who stand up to them are Caesar's men and your occasional NCR unit. They're a bunch of ex-cons out of the NCR's old prison."

Dustin remembered the letters stenciled across the man's uniform, probably Cobb himself. NCRCF – New California Republic Correctional Facility. He should've figured it out sooner. Trudy continued, "Rumor has it they overthrew the guards and took the prison over. Been plaguing the roads ever since."

"They're still at the prison?"

"That's what I hear, though who knows for sure."

Dustin tapped his finger against the bar, thinking. How much would a new rifle cost? Hell, a pistol? How would he even get the caps to pay for it? He was going to get that son of a bitch back for what he'd done. Trudy suddenly interrupted his thoughts.

"You're not seriously thinking of going after them, are you?"

"I'm considering it."

"Consider this – there are over a hundred Powder Gangers in that compound alone, not to mention all their little friends scattered throughout the wastes. They're almost as big as the Fiends. There's no way you'd ever get close enough to Cobb to do some damage."

"You said Cobb came in here earlier tonight. I may not have to get close. He may come right to me."

"That's a dangerous game you're playing, trader," Trudy said. "Just don't go getting my saloon shot up over some vendetta."

"I'm not a trader. My name's Dustin. And I wouldn't worry too much about getting your bar shot up. I plan on making this up close and personal."

Dustin turned to head out, but Trudy stopped him. She set a mug down and filled it with a bubbling amber liquid. "On the house," she said before turning to attend to her other customers. Dustin looked down at the frothy liquid and wondered just what kind of drink this was. He picked it up and gingerly brought the glass to his lips, letting a few droplets roll down past his lips and into his throat. It burned the entire way down and erupted in his stomach like a volcano. He fought back a cough. Moonshine. Trudy was brewing her own alcohol here, a still no doubt somewhere nearby. He snorted and took another tentative sip, moving back into the common room. The men in the corner playing cards interested him and had since he'd arrived. He walked over. There were four players in all, surrounding a small circular table, their cards face down in front of them, and a stack of three cards laying the center face-up. A King of Hearts, a Six of Spades, and a Four of Clubs stared up at the men expectantly.

"What are you playing?" Dustin asked. The men regarded him with stoic expressions.

"An old Pre-War game. Doubt you'd know it. Texas Hold 'em," one of them answered. He glanced at his cards, and then pushed in a row of bottle caps toward the center, next to the stack of face-up cards.

"I've heard of it. Never played it, though," Dustin said. It wasn't entirely true. He'd played it some several occasions, and seen it played more times than he could count, at the Junktown casino.

"Well, pull up a seat if you want," another player said before folding his hand, throwing his cards off to the side with a curse. "Minimum buy-in is five caps."

Dustin yanked a seat up between the two older players. His heart hammered a little quicker in his chest. This is what he'd wanted to do out on the Strip before that bastard Joe Cobb had messed everything up. He turned toward the player next to him.

"Float me for a few rounds?" he asked.

"Ha," the elderly farmer chuckled. "Fat chance."

"Float me and if I lose I'll work a day in your fields for every cap I lose," Dustin offered. The man's eyes slanted toward the floor. His friend nudged him, nodding ever so slightly.

"Alright," he said. "But you'd better be good for it."

* * *

><p>Four hours later, Dustin walked out of the Prospector Saloon, his pockets jingling with sixty-eight more caps than he'd walked in with. The farmers had cursed him and finally kicked him from the game, calling it a night themselves. It hadn't taken long for them to recognize he had skill, but pride kept them from giving up too easily. They played and played, desperately trying to prove their skill over his, but poker and gambling was what Dustin lived for. Besides shooting, it was the only thing he was really good at, and although Maggie had always said it would be the death of him, he didn't think it was a bad talent to have. Dustin's thoughts suddenly floated back into Junktown, back to Maggie. He wondered how she was doing, if she ever thought about him like he so often thought about her. Fat chance, he thought to himself. She'd made it clear what she thought of him. He was a friend and she'd never think of him as often as he thought of her, nor in the same context. He sighed and looked up the hill toward the old, destitute gas station where Ringo was supposedly hiding. He strode up toward the building, his boots crunching against the loose sand and dirt that covered the old concrete road. The circular Poseidon Gas logo looked like it had been clipped by an explosion of some kind, and the letters were barely legible.<p>

Dustin walked past the ancient gas terminals and approached the front door. It was made of glass, though wooden plywood had been nailed to block view in. Dustin walked in, looking around the dim interior. Old wooden shelves were scattered with empty cans and dry water bottles. Cartons of cigarettes long munched away on by radroaches littered the floor.

He rounded the first row of shelves and heard the click of a pistol hammer being yanked back. Dustin froze, his hands rising into the air. "Easy, Ringo. It's me, Dustin."

The trader stumbled on a can of beams and his aim faltered. Dustin took his chance and grabbed the pistol, forcing it toward the floor. Ringo struggled until he caught sight of Dustin's face in the darkness. He froze, then let out a sharp sigh of relief.

"Dustin, it is you. Thank God, I thought it was the Powder Gangers playing a trick on me."

"How would the Powder Gangers know my name, Ringo?"

"I don't know. It doesn't matter. Thank God Sunny found you. When I told her where we'd been ambushed I didn't expect her to actually find anyone alive, much less rescue them from Caesar's Legion. That girl is something else, let me tell you," Ringo said.

"I noticed. Trudy said I should pay you a visit so here I am," Dustin said. He let go of the pistol and allowed Ringo to return it to his belt.

"Yeah, I just wanted to see it with my own eyes. Not many people escape the Powder Gangers and the Legion. Also, I wanted to say thanks. Your warning allowed me to get away. I only wish my men could've been so lucky too. I would pay you something but they took everything. Sunny said the site was completely ransacked."

"Yeah, they took all my stuff too. My rifle, all my gear, my pack," Dustin said his eyes lowering toward the ground. Freedom Forever, the phrase stitched in by his old squad mates. He wanted it back. "That gives me an idea. You still feel like repaying me?"

"Yeah, but how?"

"I've got an idea," Dustin said the thought still forming his head. It was a little crazy but it could work. A slow smile crept across his lips.

* * *

><p>"You're really going to go after the Powder Gangers?" Sunny asked. "I've begged the boys at McCarran to do something about it for months and they still haven't sent anyone. You really think you can make a difference?"<p>

"I'm not looking to make a difference," Dustin said. "I'm just looking to get my stuff back and get a little even with that dickhead Cobb."

"It's crazy. You realize that, right?"

Dustin smiled, stepping up and resting a hand on Sunny's shoulder. "Crazy's all I've known since birth . . . and it's only gotten worse with age."

Sunny grinned. She stepped in slightly, lessening the gap between the two. The action sent a strange shockwave through Dustin's system and his brow creased slightly. "Well, you're gonna need something more than crazy on your side. For luck . . ."

Sunny leaned in, her lips just barely grazing Dustin's cheek. He fought to keep his breath steady.

He'd returned to Sunny's house to find her still snoozing peacefully. The sun would be rising in a few short hours and after laying the blanket back out, Dustin had tried to get some sleep. Images of Rapp and that fateful day plagued his mind, however, and he tried to focus on the plan instead. It would work. It would, he told himself over and over. As the sun rose over the horizon and peeked in through the stained windows Sunny rose and he set to telling her of his plan. They stood in her doorway as Dustin prepared to go meet Ringo.

He wanted to kiss her, wanted to feel her lips against his just then. Even with all the feelings he had for Maggie, this seemed to overwhelm all that. Sunny's caring nature, her ability to handle herself in a firefight, even her auburn-colored hair; it all attracted him so heavily.

"She's waking up!" a voice suddenly snapped the two apart. One of the farmers came running toward Sunny's door, huffing and puffing. He gasped for breath. "She's awake. The courier, Doc said she's waking up."


	6. CH6: Fool to Cry

Chapter 6

_Fool to Cry_

Sunny and Dustin exchanged glances. The farmer finally got the wind back in his lungs after several ragged breaths. His eyes were wild with excitement. He continued, "Doc wants you," he said indicating Sunny, "to go wait at the Prospector Saloon for her. He doesn't want too many people flooding in to greet her, says it could put her into shock after taking such a kick to the head."

"What does he want me to do?" Sunny asked her brow creasing. She supposed it made sense. The courier was no doubt in a fragile condition, but why would Doc want her to wait at the Prospector for someone Sunny had helped save?

"He said once she's got her senses back, he wants you to show her around town, show her a few things," the farmer said. Sunny nodded, though still a little confused. She looked toward Dustin who simply shrugged his shoulders. Wouldn't a courier know enough about the wastes already?

"That's actually good, though," Dustin suddenly thought. "When Cobb shows up things could get pretty rough. You can keep her out of the way until I take care of business; make sure she doesn't get hurt."

"What am I supposed to do with her, though?" Sunny asked. The farmer's eyes darted between the two.

"I don't know, teach her about the wasteland. Obviously she doesn't know too much about it if she got shot in the head at point blank range. Hell, take her on a safari. Just make sure she's out of the way when Cobb shows up. Last thing I need on my conscious is for a miracle survivor to get shot during my plan."

"Are you sure you still want to go through with this?" Sunny asked. "I mean, it's risky enough as is. Are you sure it's worth it?"

"That bastard took everything I had. I'm gonna get even," Dustin said. He looked toward the farmer, who took it as his queue to leave. He nodded at the pair and jogged back toward his own house, no doubt to tell his kin the good news.

"Alright, I'll look after her. You owe me and I owe Doc Mitchell," Sunny said. She looked toward the ground, untold thoughts circling inside her head. She met his eyes, if a little hesitantly. "Just be careful, alright."

Dustin nodded. He wanted to do something more, kiss her or hug her goodbye, but he instead only turned and jogged up the hill toward where Ringo was waiting. The plan would soon be put in effect and, with any luck, Cobb would be dead by sundown.

* * *

><p>Doc Mitchell picked the mirror up off the nearby table and handed it to you the young woman. Bandages still covered her forehead and large portions of her scalp, however, her face was now revealed. She hesitated when handed the mirror, not sure she wanted to see the visage that would stare back at her.<p>

"I had to do some reconstructive surgery," Mitchell said. He sat down across from her. "The skin grafts match your complexion almost perfectly and the scars will heal with time. I hope you're satisfied. It was the best I could do."

"Thank you," the courier croaked out. She closed her eyes for a moment, taking in a long drawn out breath, before flipping the mirror over. The scratched, marred surface revealed a young woman, about twenty-one years of age. Almond-shaped eyes stared back at her, green as the rolling plains of ancient California. Her skin was tanned and the slightest hint of freckles dotted her nose. Long strands of chestnut brown hair peeked out between gaps in the bandages. She instantly dropped the mirror back to her knees, her eyes watering. Doc Mitchell came to her side, a tentative hand resting on her shoulder.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

The courier nodded, tears running down her cheeks in long glistening streams. "I . . . I look the same."

Doc Mitchell pulled the young woman into a tight embrace, caressing her back with a patriarchal care. The courier continued to sob. "Thank you, thank you," she said over and over again.

Mitchell simply nodded. Finally, the tears stopped flowing and the girl collected herself, rubbing gingerly at her eyes, afraid her face might shatter if she was too rough. Her eyes dried and she sniffed heavily. Fingers instinctively travelled to the edges of her bandages, scratching at the brim. Doc Mitchell stopped her.

"I wouldn't do that," he said. "You were shot in the head. I had to go rootin' around in your noggin to get all the lead out. Large parts of your scalp are still healing."

"Oh," the courier said, and then it all came flooding back – the platinum chip, the mysterious delivery order, and that man . . . that man in the checkered suit. Who was he? And why had he wanted the chip? "How long do I have to keep the bandages on?"

"At least a week, I'd say. You can spend that time here in Goodsprings if you'd like, 'til you're feeling back up to speed."

"Goodsprings?"

"Yeah, you were found just outside of town, but enough about that. For now, I just want to make sure you're physically capable. Go ahead and stand up. Let's see if we can get you on your feet."

Tentatively, and with no easy effort, the young courier stood up off the sofa. Doc Mitchell lent a helping hand but she refused. As much as it pained her she would do this on her own. Her knees straightened and after a moment of shakiness she stood tall. Her legs quivered beneath her and when she tried to take a step she stumbled. Doc Mitchell caught her, however, and she righted herself once more. This time, with a clenched jaw and hard-set shoulders, she took several determined steps forward.

"Not bad, not bad at all," Doc Mitchell said. "Hell, I'd say that's damn near miraculous."

The courier simply smiled. She grabbed onto a nearby table for support, the effort taking a lot out of her. She breathed heavily and again went to scratch at the bandages. She stopped herself, however, and instead only tucked a few rogue strands of hair away from her eyes.

"I want to test your capabilities fully, if you don't mind," Mitchell said. The courier offered a quick nod, this time taking his offered hand. "There's an old machine I found a long time ago. Doctors used it just before the war for physical assessments. I think it might come in handy here today, which is good because for the last decade or so it's just been collecting dust in the corner. It's called a –"

"Doctor, I owe you my life," the girl suddenly interrupted. Doc Mitchell smiled, his cheeks turning a light shade of pink. "No, really . . . I owe you everything."

"Please, just call me Doc. Everyone else does . . . and it's really no worry."

The courier smiled. She took a seat at the strange machine – a Vit-o-matic Vigor Tester - and stared up at her newfound friend. With a bright youthful gaze she said, "I'm Caroline."

* * *

><p>Thin particles of sand and dust collected across the binoculars' twin lenses. Dustin wiped them away with his thumb, leaving an even heavier smear, and glanced back toward the trailer. The Powder Gangers were sitting outside, smoking cigarettes and swapping stories. Much like the troops in the NCR army they talked about female conquests, great battles they'd fought in, and drunken escapades. Even though they were nothing like the men of his squad it still brought a multitude of memories flooding back.<p>

One in particular nagged at his conscious, brought on by the dream the other night. The Battle of Redding had been the toughest of his career, and probably the most traumatic. He pushed the thoughts from his head, however. The Powder Gangers had caught sight of something and were rising from their seats to investigate.

Ringo.

A small smile cracked across Dustin's chapped lips.

As planned, the quad of gangers headed toward the strange glint of light, their brows creased and their hands edging toward their holstered pistols. As they approached the narrow pass between the two foothills, they caught sight of the small, flannel-clad trader chipping away at an old piece of scrap metal. They let out a yell of excitement and reached for their guns. An order was called back to the ganger at the rear and he sprinted back in the direction they'd come, no doubt to tell Joe Cobb of their miraculous find. Ringo jumped at their loud call and scuttled toward the mouth of the pass, his lungs betraying harsh gasps of fear. The gangers didn't notice the falseness present in the pleas for mercy and compassion. They smiled evilly and took off after him.

Dustin edged toward the rocky outcropping that overlooked the pass, the nine-millimeter pistol tucked in close to his chest.

The gangers pursued with greater haste than had been expecting. Their feet kicked up so much dirt and rock they didn't even hear the beeping until they were right on it. Eyes were suddenly drawn downward toward the piece of scrap metal and realization didn't dawn on them until just before the explosion. It knocked them hard into the side of the pass, the shockwave sending fragments of rock and metal upward in a beautiful yet deadly umbrella pattern. Blood splattered across the rock and dirt. Two of the gangers had holes ripped open across their abdomen and another's arm looked to be hanging by a thread. He used his remaining hand to aim his pistol at the retreating trader. He would end the sorry sack of shit's life if it was the last thing he did.

Just then, as he trained his gun on the trader's back, a loud bang echoed across the valley, reaching even the ears of the retreating ganger. He stopped for a moment and smiled. Cobb would be impressed they had found the little weasel and disposed of him on their own. He sprinted back toward the camp.

Dustin lowered the gun's smoking barrel and stared down at the crater in the ganger's forehead, a satisfied look across his face. The remaining two gangers didn't last much longer, succumbing to the viciousness of their wounds moments later. They looked up into the sun overhead, saw the silhouette standing atop the rocky outcropping, and wondered if it was the devil finally coming for their souls. The silhouette disappeared and so did the life from the gangers' eyes.

At the mouth of the pass Ringo stood with his hands upon his knees, breathing harshly. He had done well and Dustin patted him on the back, a harsh coughing fit erupting from the trader. Dustin simply smiled.

"I told you the dynamite would work," he said.

"Where'd you learn to rig it with a motion sensor like that?" Ringo asked his breath returning to his lungs. "It took everything I had not to accidentally set it off by accident."

"My dad," Dustin said quietly. "He used to use it to kill geckos on hunts . . . 'til he got too close to one of the motion sensors one day."

He trailed off and this time it was Ringo who patted him on the back. Dustin looked over at him and nodded back toward town, about a half-mile away. Ringo sighed. "I sure hope this plan of yours works. If it doesn't, we're both dead men."

Dustin chuckled. "Wouldn't be anything new."

* * *

><p>Caroline rubbed at her wrist, the strange device already beginning to chafe away at her flesh. It would take some time to adapt to the . . . Pip-Boy. Was that what he had called it? Yes, a Pip-Boy 3000. It would supposedly help her with her quest to find the man who'd shot her. She had yet to investigate the strange contraption, however. She wasn't very good with computers. New Arroyo hadn't taught her much in the way of technology beyond simple operation and hacking had definitely never been a strong suit. A push of one of the buttons, though, quickly changed the screen to a topographical map of the region. A small, white triangle indicated her location, and an outward circular pulse drew out the buildings in front of her. Amazing, she thought to herself. It was capable of instantly mapping out an area, preferable to the long nights it took to map out the woods north of Arroyo. But that had been years ago and this would work so much better. Another button changed the screen to the image of an outlined human being. A small prick in her forearm brought a yelp of surprise to her lips. Had the machine just stabbed her? An hourglass appeared across the screen and above the icon's head was a question mark. A moment later the hourglass and the question mark disappeared, replaced by the icon's smiling face. In small blocky letters the screen read "Vitals Complete – 100100". Amazing, Caroline again thought to herself. She decided she'd mess with it more later, pulling the jumpsuit's sleeve over it.

She walked down the hill on steadier legs and saw the relic known as the Prospector Saloon. The wooden planks that covered the building's surface were chipped and rotted and she wondered how the building was still standing. A weathered old man sat on the front porch, a straw hat covering his graying head. She nodded at him but he only stared back, his eyes barely open beneath the heavy bags of flesh that hung from his brow.

Caroline opened the saloon door and was instantly met with the bark of a nearby canine.

"Cheyenne stay," a woman said from behind the dog. She pulled herself off the stool and walked up. "Don't worry; she won't bite unless I tell her to. I'm Sunny."

* * *

><p>The sun was setting across the horizon when Joe Cobb finally wandered into the Prospector Saloon, his eyes mad with rage. Dustin sat in the far corner of the bar and watched the man as he walked up. The door slammed shut in his wake and his boots clicked heavily across the rough wooden floor. He pointed a hand at Trudy.<p>

"You, tell me where he is!" Cobb barked out. Beneath the crest of the bar Dustin clicked the hammer back on his pistol.

"Where who is?" Trudy asked. Dustin had already briefed her on the plan and she would play her part. If it meant finally getting rid of the Powder Gangers that had long plagued her town she would do pretty much anything.

"Don't play dumb with me! You know who I'm talking about."

Trudy walked around the side of the bar, her arms crossed across her chest. Cobb regarded her with suspicion, completely ignoring the stranger sitting at the end of the bar, his hat pulled low across his brow. Dustin took a sip from the drink, barely letting it graze his lips.

"I'm done being nice," Cobb continued. "If you don't hand Ringo over soon I'm gonna get my friends and we're burning this town to the ground. Got it? He killed three of my boys. Tell me where he is."

It was then Dustin noticed the figure walking around the corner. He froze. No, he thought. The bandages, the vault jumpsuit, it couldn't be.

Trudy noticed as well but kept her eyes on Cobb. "I'm sorry for your friends and we'll keep what you said in mind, but if you're not going to buy something, get out."

Cobb felt the presence over his shoulder. He turned around and caught sight of the young female courier standing in the doorway. "Who the fuck are you?" he asked.

Dustin cursed inwardly.

"What's going on here?" the courier asked. She had a hard look in her eyes. Cobb barely noticed.

"None of your concern bitch. This is between me and 'ol Trudy here," Cobb said throwing a nod over his shoulder. Trudy continued to stand there with her arms crossed. Dustin turned in his seat, keeping the gun tucked out of sight behind his thigh.

"I think you should leave," Caroline said. She moved her hand toward her belt, revealing a pristine ten-millimeter pistol tucked into a handmade brown leather holster. Even if she was terrible with a gun at this close of range the ten-millimeter slugs would annihilate the Powder Ganger. If he didn't get his pistol out first, that was. Dustin's hand clenched tighter around the pistol. Just leave out the back, he prayed over and over in his head. Just leave out the back. The plan would come to fruition if he just –

Cobb scoffed at the young brunette and strode past her. She turned to watch him leave, her fingers still dangling next to the pistol.

Dustin rose from his seat. He'd just have to adapt, he told himself. He headed out as well. When Cobb reached the dividing wall he turned and shoved Caroline hard into Dustin, running out the door. Damn, he thought as he struggled to right the woman. How had he caught on? He sprinted out the door after him, the sun blinding him, however, upon exiting. When his vision finally cleared he saw nothing of the Powder Ganger, not even a trail of boot prints.

Dustin spat out a variety of curse words, driving his toe into the nearby wooden support beam. Easy Pete stared at him with the same expression he regarded everything: tranquil.

Dustin was far from tranquil, however. He stormed back into the saloon, nearly taking the door off its hinges as he wrenched it open. The courier, that stupid girl he'd helped save, had messed everything up. She just couldn't stay away long enough to let him get his stuff back, let him get even.

Caroline was standing there talking to Trudy, exchanging friendly introductions. Trudy caught sight of the young man. "Did you get him?" she asked hopefully.

Dustin snorted. "No, thanks to delivery girl here he got away," he indicated the courier with a thumb.

The back door swung open and Sunny jogged in. She caught sight of the courier. "There you are. I was wondering – "

Dustin interrupted. "What the hell happened, Sunny?"

Sunny halted herself just short of the bar and Caroline stopped talking. She looked at the man she'd been thrown into, unaware of why he was so outraged. She had just stopped that ganger from shooting the saloon up.

"I . . ."

"Why are you so angry?" Caroline asked. Dustin's eyes snapped in her direction. "Sunny and I were hunting geckos. We killed them all so while Sunny was gathering some healing powder ingredients I headed in here to cool off."

"Do you have any idea what you've just done?" Dustin asked. Caroline regarded him with a confused gaze.

"Stopped that man from shooting up the bar?"

"No, you screwed up my entire plan. I was going to kill him, probably stopping Goodsprings from ever being bothered by the Powder Gangers again, and you had to come in here –"

"Killing him wouldn't have made things any better," the courier interrupted. "It would've just brought the wrath of his gang down on the town."

"They're gonna come no matter what now 'cause he now knows Ringo is here and I am too. He must've recognized me or something. That's why he bolted for the door. Except instead of the Powder Gangers coming back without any form of leadership, they're gonna have a pissed off honcho running the show. Thanks again."

"Hey, she didn't know," Sunny said. "It's my fault. I was supposed to watch her."

"Watch me? I didn't realize I needed a babysitter," Caroline snapped.

"Apparently you do."

"Enough," Trudy suddenly barked at everyone. "Whose fault it is no longer matters. Cobb's going to come back and with a lot of firepower. What are we going to do to stop him?"

Several seconds passed in which no one said a word. Finally, Caroline broke the silence. "Why'd he even come to town in the first place? Who's he after?" she asked.

Dustin quieted the rage still boiling in his stomach and fought to keep his tone steady. "He's after this trader named Ringo who gave him the slip a few days back . . . and now probably me too now that he knows I'm still alive. If you want the whole story you're going to have to ask Ringo. I don't feel like recounting the whole tale."

"Why don't you both go up there together," Trudy said, though it was more of an order than a request. "Maybe the three of you can figure something out _together_."

"Sounds fair," Caroline said.

"Whatever," Dustin muttered. He was now one step further from getting his things back, and even further away from making it to the Strip. That game of Hold 'em hadn't been enough. He needed more to quench his thirst for gambling, that bitter sweet taste of risking it all on a hand. He had to get his bag back and all his caps and if it meant working with the courier to do it, he would. Sunny locked eyes with him, her mouth a thin line across her face. Before Dustin could say anything she stormed out. Dustin ran a hand through his hair, swiping his bangs away from his brow. He would deal with that later. For now, they had to worry about Joe Cobb and his gang. They'd come soon enough, probably sometime in the night, and they had to be prepared.

"Come on," he said to the courier. "Let's go talk to Ringo. We've got work to do."


	7. CH7: Tumbling Dice

Chapter 7

_Tumbling Dice_

"You really think this'll work?" Caroline asked. They descended the hill back toward the Prospector Saloon. Ringo had proven minimally helpful, though had promised substantial coin if they permanently rectified the situation, leaving the task entirely up to them. Dustin had come up with a solution, though it was extremely risky, and involved the entire town taking part. They would defend Goodsprings as one, an armed militia ready to take on the Powder Ganger assault. There were still significant hurdles for them to cross in order to render the plan successful, however - primarily the troops needed and the weapons they would use.

Dustin shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know," he said honestly. His mouth turned downward. "The last plan I had failed miserably."

Caroline sighed. "You're gonna have to let that go if we're to work together on this."

Dustin snorted. "Have you ever even shot a gun before?"

Caroline's eyes snapped over in his direction, her brow furrowed, and her mouth a thin line across her face. He grinned, raising his hands in a mock form of surrender. "Fine," he said. "I guess you'll have ample time to prove it because once it starts we're not stopping 'til ever last one of them is dead."

"Fine by me," she said. "Then I'm going after the man who did this to me."

Caroline indicated the bandages still covering her forehead and scalp. He had no doubt beneath all the bandages and gauze, tape and skin grafts, a beautiful woman awaited freedom. The thought brought a hard lump to his throat. The sight of her being carried into Doc Mitchell's house, her face a bloodied pulp covered in dirt and rock, still churned his stomach. Despite the anger he held toward the woman, he truly felt sorry for her. She had suffered a fate far worse than his, the scars proving it forever accompanying her on her journeys.

"I don't blame you," Dustin said. "You talk to Trudy, see about getting the town's support. We're gonna need their help if we want to defend the town."

"What about you?" she asked.

"I'm gonna talk to Sunny. She's a hell of a shot. We need her," Dustin said. Caroline nodded, though she knew it was more than her skills as a marksman that drove him toward her house. "After Trudy, see if you can round up some weapons and armor."

"Got it," Caroline said. She turned and headed for the Prospector, calling over her shoulder, "Good luck."

Dustin didn't respond. It would take more than luck to convince Sunny to help. After how he'd behaved it'd be a miracle if she didn't shoot him on sight. As he walked toward her house he took in Goodsprings, committing its layout to memory. He would need to know all its nooks and crannies if he wanted to survive the impending gunfight. Farmers tended their crops, finishing up their duties as the sun dwindled over the horizon. The smell of maize and heath filled his nostrils. In the distance, Dustin saw Victor rolling toward his shack. An idea suddenly sparked inside his head. He jogged toward the Securitron, his leg burning with each stride, while the idea continued to take shape. He caught up with Victor at the top of the hill, the effort bringing a grunt from his lips.

"Well howdy, partner," the Securitron said, apparently not noticing. He turned screen toward the Junktown-native. The cowboy image was back to its normal smiling visage, the cigar dangling from the corner of its lips. "Thanks again for your help with the courier. You're a rootin' tootin' hero in my book . . . no matter what anyone says."

"That's great," Dustin said shrugging the comment aside. His eyes suddenly narrowed. "Wait, what do mean 'no matter what anyone says'?"

"I was over by the ol' schoolhouse and saw Sherriff Smiles walking. She didn't have anything nice on your behalf when I ventured a question or two. Guess you threw a rooster in the henhouse, eh partner?"

Dustin wasn't even sure how that made sense given the situation. He stopped walking and brought a hand up to Victor's mechanical arm. It was warm to the touch, despite the sleek metal exterior. "Look, Victor, we have a problem. What kinds of weapons are you outfitted with?"

The robot turned on its wheel, the screen shifting. After a moment of static it changed to the visage of a much angrier cowboy, his eyes narrowed and hot with rage, his teeth bared. Victor's voice was low and Dustin had to lean in to hear him say, "All kinds."

* * *

><p>Dustin sighed, his fist raised mere inches from the door, yet unwilling to move. He'd acted like a total ass. Sunny would probably never forgive him. That didn't matter, though. Right now, he needed her help. <em>Goodsprings<em> needed her help. Perhaps that fact would keep her from sicking Cheyenne on him. He'd had his fair share of angry critters already. He didn't need to add one more to the list.

Dustin rapped lightly on the door. It rattled against the frame, barely more than a few planks nailed together. The job of sheriff didn't pay very well, apparently. He heard rustling from inside followed by a harsh, "Hold on." A moment later the door swung open. Sunny stood there, her face dropping the moment she saw him. She had removed her leather armor and was wearing a simple pair of tan pants and a white tank-top. The pants were tight across her thighs and sat high on her hips. The tank-top, however, was thin and cut low across her chest, revealing a fair amount of cleavage. Dustin kept his eyes level, avoiding the urge to glance down. She had obviously not been expecting visitors. Her widened eyes quickly transformed into narrow, angry slits.

"I –" he tried to get out,

"What do you want?" she asked harshly. Cheyenne stood at her side.

"I came to ask for help."

"Help? Last time I tried to help you blew up on me. How was I supposed to know she was going to go the Prospector Saloon to cool off? I turned around and she was gone," Sunny said her hands flailing outward.

"I know . . . and I'm sorry. But that doesn't really matter right now. What matters is Goodsprings. Cobb recognized me in the bar. That's why he got away and I'm willing to bet right now he's gathering up his boys, intent on coming back here to burn the town to the ground."

Sunny's lips parted. "He wouldn't . . ."

Dustin nodded. "Yes, he would. You know he would. But it's okay 'cause I've got a plan. We're gonna get the whole town together to fight them off and with any luck I'll get another shot at killing the son of a bitch, maybe end this whole thing once and for all. Caroline is talking to Trudy to see about getting the townspeople involved. Then she's going to see if she can round up some guns and armor. I already spoke to Victor –"

"You talked to Victor?"

"Yeah, I saw him on my way back from the gas station. I've convinced him to help. For being such an old bucket of bolts he's actually got some pretty state-of-the-art weaponry. All I need now is a sniper to watch my back when the shooting starts. You saved my ass once with that rifle of yours. Think you could do it again for the whole town?" Dustin knew he was pushing the pot hard with this gamble, but it was all he could think of to get her to help. Sunny crossed her arms across her chest and Dustin knew he had her.

"Fine, but don't think this settles things between us," she said. Dustin grinned.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he said. He turned to head back toward the Prospector but spun on his heel. "Oh yeah, there's one other thing I forgot."

"What?" Sunny asked.

Dustin pressed his lips firmly against hers. She shrieked in surprise, though didn't pull back for several moments. Her lips caressed his for several long, lingering moments. When she finally pushed him away she drove a palm hard across Dustin's cheek. He rubbed it tenderly with his fingertips, but continued smiling nonetheless. He winked and turned on his heel once more, heading toward Doc Mitchell's. Stimpaks and Med-x were the next order and after that, dynamite. Unfortunately, that meant coercing an old bum to part with his stash. The weight of the pistol tugged at Dustin's belt. Back in the old days during the war, if a town had vital supplies needed for the war effort the army would've just taken them. Dustin had always been against it, but now, with resources so limited he could see why they had resorted to such desperate measures. He hated to even think of using such a tactic, but if it came down to it, he would do whatever was necessary to destroy the Powder Gangers . . . and exact his revenge.

* * *

><p>The moon glowed high across the night sky when Sunny finally signaled the Powder Gangers' approach. Dustin could see their torches twinkling in the distance. Cocky bastards, he thought to himself. They weren't even trying to conceal their position. Cobb obviously wasn't expecting much of a fight. The dynamite in the burlap sack next to him, and the sticks fused together along the road, were evidence to the contrary. Dustin signaled to the line of armed townspeople, Trudy and Ringo among them, to ready their weapons. Beside him, Victor's arms hummed to life. The mechanical fingers glowed red in the center and the screen was again occupied by the visage of an angry cowboy. Dustin looked out toward the road. They were only a few hundred yards away. There looked to be about a dozen, an awfully small number considering the strength Cobb had boasted back in the saloon. Dustin looked back up toward Sunny and wondered if she was thinking what he was. Her eyes remained fixed on the road.<p>

Keeping his head down, Dustin skidded over toward Caroline. She kept her gun leveled across the makeshift barrier, barely paying him any attention. "If they get within fifty yards, give the order to fire. I'll be right back," Dustin said. Caroline's eyes snapped over in his direction.

"You're leaving?" she asked sharply.

"I'll be right back. I want to check on something."

"Well, get your ass back here quick. This was your plan," she said.

"I know. Two seconds," Dustin assured her. He stole back toward the Prospector and circled around behind. He had mapped out the town in his head earlier that evening and knew every corner, every crevice the town supported. He just had to be sure.

The blow came hard across his chest, knocking the wind clean from his lungs, and taking his feet out from under him. This time, however, it wasn't Chet defending his store. Joe Cobb and about a dozen more Powder Gangers stepped around the corner, dressed almost entirely in black. The letters NCRCF glowed in the moonlight. Cobb's mouth peeled back in an evil smile.

"Find Ringo," he said. "I'll handle this fucker. Burn the town to the ground."


End file.
